


Sanctuary, New and Familiar

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Fetish, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy has a secret scent!kink.  Jim indulges him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary, New and Familiar

Leonard McCoy is a doctor, damnit.

And not just any doctor, but a damn fine one, not to mention Chief Medical Officer of Starfleet's flagship, thank you very much. So Doctor McCoy has seen a lot of weird-ass shit in his time, and a good bit of that has to do with sex. Doctor/patient confidentiality has him providing an objective ear on all sorts of not-strictly-medically-related crew concerns, from discomfort in particular sexual positions he doesn't think anyone should really be attempting in the first place, to a number of spontaneous sexuality crises following the holiday party in the mission's second year, to a few unusual fetishes. He's heard it all, and seen a good bit of it. 

But that doesn't make him feel any less guilty when he slips over to Jim's pile of dirty laundry on the bedroom floor, snatching another one of Jim's shirts and making off with it before Jim gets out of the shower. Technically, it's abuse of the situation. Jim will let him into the captain's quarters for any number of reasons before he gets flighty and has to run and do something, or shower, or talk with another officer in the hallway. It's highly inappropriate for McCoy to then take advantage of this privacy in Jim's living space and the fact that Jim never sends his laundry off like he should to snatch an article of clothing for his own personal sexual satisfaction. But that doesn't necessarily _stop_ him.

The first one was barely even dirty, taken after a light day on the job, the thrill elicit and pleasing but quickly not enough. Like a drug, McCoy needed more, he needed something more potent. He grabbed another shirt after sending the first to the wash, and this was stronger-smelling, purposefully selected after a stressful shift that was sure to produce sweat and pheromones in sufficient quantities for McCoy's admittedly fucked-up purpose. 

But this. This is gold. 

In his bedroom, he tells the computer to dim the lights to 20% and closes his eyes as he settles against the mattress. His hand slips into his pants as the black undershirt comes to his nose, and he nearly comes unglued at that first, deep inhale. Fuck. It's perfect, exactly what McCoy imagined it would be. A hard work-out between shift and sleep makes James Kirk a very sweaty boy, and McCoy can barely contain himself, driving his ass down into the mattress and his dick back up through his fist as he presses his face right to the armpit. It doesn't have the same association with power as the command gold, the same sort of risky thrill that comes with the combination of scent and submission (a combination that's almost too potent for McCoy to explore), but it doesn't matter. Two sniffs and he's already about to burst.

This isn't a new discovery, by far. He's always been hardwired for this; girls, boys, it doesn't matter. His earliest memories are of his father's distinctive scent, grass and soap and musk underneath. In his first sexual experience with a boy, he dove into that poor young man's balls like he was dying of thirst, breathing and licking and moaning because he didn't know any better. He thought everyone did that. 

He likes the taste, but it's the smell that kills him. He's learned to control himself as an adult, and Jocelyn always thought it was weird, so it's closeted as damn-near anything at this stage in his life, and he'd managed not to slip until just a few months ago, the first time he finally gave in and nipped that stupid fucking shirt. The problem was that Jim sweats a _lot_, and it was impossible not to notice. Stains under the arms, darkening command gold to a too-enticing shade, even the sheen at the back of Jim's neck that McCoy is sure would have a cleaner scent all its own. And then there's the demanding spread of his legs, the way he owns that captain's chair, and just the _knowledge_ of what he's hiding under that uniform, the heavy weight of his balls and the smell of sweat and musk and maybe even pre-come, maybe if he could come on just the right way, make himself just the right kind of enticing.

That is one fucking dangerous thought.


End file.
